by Bliss Bennet
Fianna fought back a bitter laugh. The Major, of course, did not include himself in that lot. He wrote nothing about the barbaric actions British troops had taken: nothing about the men whipped on mere suspicion of insurgent sentiment, or taken up for transportation without even a trial; nothing about the houses of innocent peasants burned to the ground when they protested against intrusive searches for hidden caches of arms; nothing about the barbarous murders English soldiers were granted free reign to commit, all in the name of peace.
Hardly surprising, that a man who would slander an enemy’s reputation would gloss over the barbarities committed by his own side. But how could that same man fill his letters instead with such detailed inquiries about and advice to his three young nephews?
August 1797
I am not at all dismayed that my namesake did not take me much into liking at our first introduction. Christian is full young, and a babe does not retain much affection for every visitor by whom he is flattered and caressed. When he is older, we will be the best of friends, I am certain of it.
September 1797
Does Benedict still tend toward taciturnity? He is not a dull child, be assured, only a thoughtful one. Do not forget to offer praise and affection when he tells you his thoughts, and to assist him when he seems lost for words.
November 1797
Remind Theo that no boy learns his numbers without proper attention and diligence. A boy who is firm and collected, and not depressed by adversity, will soon be a man of great and noble deeds, worthy of the Pennington name.
Fianna ran a finger over the crease in this last note, pressing it back into a tight square. Not the polite family generalities she’d expected from a man taken up with military concerns, these frequent lines about Kit and his brothers. No, Major Pennington’s questions and counsels suggested not only a deep affection for, but also an intimate knowledge of, each of his nephews’ characters and interests.
Fianna raised her eyes, but Kit stood with his back to her, staring out the window. Did he think to soften her toward his uncle by showing how deeply the man was entwined in the heart of his own family?
But how could she begin to reconcile the kindness of this doting uncle with the crude prejudices against her own people that the letters so clearly revealed?
When Fianna reached the letter he had originally set aside, the one he suspected might refer to her father, Kit began to pace the room. Damn his uncle for teaching him to march with such military precision, his boots slapping sharp stings against the uncarpeted passageway floorboards.
March 1798
Unrest throughout the country. The establishment has declared martial law. No overt violence here yet, tho’ we have witnessed our own share of disturbances. Two recruits beaten by a Mob, purportedly in retaliation for their striking down several townspeople in the street. But in truth angered by the army pressing their land in service of grazing our cattle. If the peace is to be kept, the soldiers must be fed, but can these peasants be made to see the sense of it? Of course they cannot.
A servant of Lt. Barber’s was also struck down; when Barber laid his hand on his sword to defend him, one of the townsmen—a Presbyterian, of course—stepped forward and desired him not to draw it. Barber, tho’, denounced him as a Rascal, naming him ringleader of the Mob. In return, the puffed-up fellow—the mere son of a mill owner—had the nerve to claim himself Barber’s equal, and to demand satisfaction. Barber would not fight—he did not know him, and would not contest his honor with a man to whom he had not been introduced.
Politesse? Or cowardice? At least, more bloodshed averted. But for how long?
Fianna ran a finger over the prophetic words. Not long, indeed. The rebellion broke out at the end of May; Antrim attacked on 7 June; her father was captured, then tried and hanged only a short month later. But Major Pennington had written nothing about that time, at least not to his brother; the next letter in the pile, sent from Portugal, not Ireland, was dated August 1808.
Warm hands cupped her shoulders, thumbs tracing against the tight sinews of her neck. “Do you think it might have been your father? The man who attempted to stop the fighting, but who would not tolerate a slur against himself?”
“It does sound like him, doesn’t it?” She turned her head, resting her cheek against the satin of his waistcoat. “My aunt might remember.”
“Might you send a letter of your own, and ask her?”
Write to her aunt? Fianna forced down a stab of distress.
Before she could begin to shape her answer, a knock sounded from the front of Kit’s rooms. Deep voices echoed from the passageway. Fianna shrugged free and moved to the window, unwilling to be seen in such intimate circumstances.
“Your brother, sir,” Kit’s man announced.
For Kit’s sake, she hoped the high-and-mighty Theo Pennington had finally deigned to pay a call on his brother. But the odor of turpentine and charcoal wafting into the room suggested otherwise.
“Benedict.” Kit smiled and reached out a hand. “Have you come to beg Miss Cameron to sit for you again?”
Benedict gave a brief nod in Fianna’s direction before striding toward his brother. “In this poor light? What do you take me for, a dabbler? No, I’ve brought this letter from Oxford, which, since it arrived at Pennington House express, seems to be of some urgency.”
“I thought you had given over your studies, Kit,” Fianna said, crossing to his side.
“Actually, I completed them. But after Father’s death, the dons offered me a fellowship, to tide me over until I was old enough to be ordained.” Kit slid a finger under the letter’s wax seal.
“Then why are you here, in London?” she asked, frowning. How had she come to know so little about the man whom she’d taken as a lover?
“Requested a leave of absence for Hilary term,” he said, looking up from the note. “Ever since my father’s death, the man he handpicked to represent Pennington interests in Parliament has been voting with the Tories instead of the Whigs, something of which Theo seems to be unaware. I hoped to persuade him of the necessity of requesting Norton to step down. And to support me as a candidate in his stead,” Kit finished with a wry smile.
“You thought to stand for Parliament?” Fianna and Benedict both exclaimed. She could hardly tell which of them sounded the more surprised.
Kit grimaced. “Easier to picture me speechifying in front of a congregation than in the House of Commons, is it?”
“No, of course not, Kit,” Fianna answered, placing a hand on his arm. “Who could doubt your skill after hearing the way you spoke at the Patriot Coffeehouse?”
“The Patriot? The place where all the radicals gather? Don’t tell me you’ve taken up the cause of reform, Kit,” Benedict said.
Under her hand, Kit’s muscles tensed. “Father believed in reform.”
“Yes, but moderate reform. Not wholesale enfranchisement of the uneducated rabble, for which Henry Hunt and his radical cronies are agitating. Has Theo truly agreed to support you, knowing you’ve become entangled with that crowd?”
Fianna’s breath caught in her throat. Kit supported universal suffrage in England? Did that mean he also supported the rights of the Irish to the vote? Had she truly shot one of the few Englishmen who might be willing to speak in Parliament on behalf of her countrymen?
“But is not the Pennington credo loyalty to family above all?” Fianna asked, stepping between Kit and his taller brother. “Lord Saybrook would deny his brother the opportunity to serve, simply because their political views differ?”
“It’s difficult to tell what Theo will do about anything these days, he’s so busy trying to bury his grief in gambling and drink,” Benedict said.
Behind her, Kit started, and Benedict’s eyes shifted to his brother. “Oh, I know you’d rather pretend otherwise, but I have no compunction about speaking the truth about our brother. I’m surprised you managed to catch him sober enough even to discuss your plans, never mind assent to them.”
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br /> Kit’s eyes flicked quickly over to her, then shot a quelling glance at his brother. “I haven’t, not yet. When he failed to keep several appointments I made when I first came up to town, I simply chalked it up to his poor sense of the hour. You know he’s always been loath to carry a timepiece.”
Benedict snorted. “And how many weeks have you been in town together now?”
“I’ve had a few other distractions, Ben. Helping Miss Cameron in her search, and then in the research for her book—”
“Not to mention the week of bed rest you had to take after being shot.” Benedict raised a sardonic eyebrow in Fianna’s direction. How many of her secrets had Kit shared with his brother? Did he know she was the one who had aimed the pistol at Kit?
But Kit’s eyes had turned back to his note before she could catch his reaction to his brother’s words. “Yes, you’re right. I should have pressed harder for another meeting. I just took it for granted that all would be settled, well before Trinity term began. It would have taken Theo some time to orchestrate Norton’s departure, and to lay the groundwork for a by-election, and I could have easily finished out the term before I needed to campaign in earnest.”
Kit’s fingers snapped against the foolscap. “But now the dean wonders if, given my current engagements in town, I intend to finish out the fellowship they were kind enough to bestow on me. Having been informed of said engagements, it would seem, by a visiting Viscount Dulcie. Lord, how politely the dean words the most biting imprecations against one’s integrity.”
“Dulcie?” Benedict snatched the letter and skimmed it through narrowing eyes. “Damnation! I told that craven tale-carrier he’d regret it if he continued to spread gossip about you.”
Benedict set the letter down on the table, then reached out a hand and grasped Kit’s shoulder. “You’ll most likely find Theo at his ladybird’s house, Kit, over on Seymour Street. Two doors down from Ingestrie’s. Probably just rising from last night’s carousal; if you hurry, you might just catch him before he downs his first bottle.”
Kit grimaced as his brother strode to the door.
“I’d go with you, but there’s a certain talebearing lordling who needs to be taught a lesson first.” Benedict closed the door softly behind him.
“And he claims he cares so little for family loyalty,” Fianna said, shaking her head. “Well, if your eldest brother proves as little devoted to it as Benedict, you should have no difficulty convincing him to support your candidacy.”
“Perhaps. Regardless, it won’t do to put off the meeting any longer.”
“No.” Fianna frowned. “But you truly haven’t seen each other, all these weeks you’ve both been in town? Did he not call on you after I—after you were injured?”
“I did not inform him,” Kit said, reaching out to grasp her fingers. “I didn’t wish the rumors that I’d been shot by a vengeful mistress to reach his ears.”
“Or because you did not wish to have reason to think ill of a Pennington?” she asked, her thumb stroking over his palm to soften the bluntness of her words. How strange, to be able to see so clearly to the heart of his reluctance. “Blind loyalty to one’s family will only go so far.”
“Mr. Norton’s loyalty has certainly not been blind, has it?” he said. Fianna refrained from pointing out his obvious change of subject.
“But Theo’s never been much for politics, and he dislikes change of any sort,” Kit continued, as if it were she, not himself, that he had to convince. “Hearing about Mr. Norton’s voting record may not be enough to persuade him that a man in whom my father once put such confidence needs to be discharged.”
“Then give him a more compelling reason,” Fianna said. “Tell him that the man drinks, or besmirches Saybrook’s name in public. No, better yet, tell him that he’s been accepting bribes from the Tories to vote against Pennington interests. A man such as your brother, one with little inkling about the true workings of government, will likely find such disloyalty difficult to stomach.”
Kit’s eyes brightened, his hands clenching around hers. “Do you have some proof that Norton’s been accepting bribes?”
“Proof? What other reason could there be for such an abrupt shift in allegiance?”
Wheaten curls bounced against his temple as he shook his head. “I don’t know, Fee. Norton always agreed with Father’s positions in the past, but perhaps he’s had a change of heart?”
“A change of heart? More likely, with your father gone, he’s become susceptible to the influence of other men. Men who will seize their chances whenever they find them. Offering an MP incentives to change sides is part and parcel of everyday governing, Kit. Surely someone who envisions taking up political work himself cannot be so naïve as to doubt it.”
Kit frowned, staring at the floor. “But an incentive is not quite the same as a bribe, is it? And to blacken another man’s reputation, without any real proof—”
Fianna’s jaw clenched. His uncle’s scruples had not been so particular, had they?
She ducked to catch Kit’s lowered gaze, then rose, straightening her shoulders. “If the goal is just, should one quibble over the means by which it is achieved?”
Kit took a step back, her fingers sliding from his grasp. “I’m no Machiavelli, Fianna, no matter how much I believe that this country is in desperate need of reform. I won’t lie to my brother, about Mr. Norton or anything else. Not even to win a seat in Parliament.”
What disappointment shone from those genial blue eyes! Fianna’s hands grasped for a moment at the empty air, finally finding purchase in the folds of her skirt.
She’d let him close, far closer than she’d ever allowed anyone before. Too close, for he was beginning to glimpse just how vast the gulf between his own forthright, frank principles and her own more dubious morals really was. Had she truly believed he’d find her worthy after he finally saw the true Fianna Cameron, all her deceitful masks stripped away?
Freeing fistfuls of muslin, Fianna smoothed her palms against the wrinkles in her dress. Let him be disappointed in her. But she wouldn’t allow his disappointment to prevent him from pursuing his dream.
Reaching for the lapels of Kit’s coat, she coaxed him closer, as if proximity might melt away the doubt lurking in his eyes. “Then don’t lie. Simply demand that your brother choose you over Norton. A man as loyal to his family as you—do you not deserve the same loyalty in return?”
Kit smiled, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek. “Such vehemence, all on my behalf? I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, Fee. But I count myself full lucky to have the sympathy of a woman as fiercely loyal as you.”
He bent and pressed his lips to hers, soft but insistent, as if seeking some physical confirmation that his words spoke the truth. She answered him with a fierceness she hadn’t known she could summon.
“Go,” she whispered, when the kiss finally broke.
She watched him out the window as he strode toward Oxford Street, proud and full of purpose, until he turned a corner and disappeared from view. She’d have to take more care, keep her masks more fully in place, if he was to be firmly on his way toward achieving his goals before true disillusion in the woman he’d taken as lover had a chance to overtake him.
And by then, she’d be ready to hear him speak the inevitable word.
Good-bye.
Fianna threw her quill down on the table, her groan startlingly loud in the silence of the empty drawing room. “Appeal to your readers’ sensibilities” had sounded simple enough, but whenever she tried to revise her chapter in accordance with Mr. Wooler’s advice, the results proved frustratingly maladroit. This line clumsy, that one maudlin, this last one utterly false—she’d struck through each one with increasing frustration, the ink blotting in ugly smears on the paper.
She raked her hands through the hair at her temples. Her father had used words to inspire the people around him; why couldn’t she?
Perhaps that was the answer—use Father’s own words, rather th
an her own. Where had she hidden them, those letters her father had written to his sister in 1796 and ’97 when he’d been imprisoned in Dublin’s Kilmainham Gaol? Candlestick in hand, she made her way back to her bedchamber, her eyes scanning the room. Yes, there, under the mattress, where she’d placed them for safekeeping the night she’d first arrived.
Somehow, she’d not been able to bring herself to share them with Kit, even now, when they were well into the project of writing her father’s history. Still clinging to the one thing of Aidan McCracken’s that was all her own?
Setting down the guttering taper on the bedside table, she flipped through the packet of letters.
15 November 1796
It is expensive to live here, plundered by Turnkeys, etc. and still more so when confined with others who cannot support themselves nor yet be left to themselves. I hate money, it makes me melancholy to think about it.
He’d be proud of her, how she’d dealt with those gaolers who’d extorted and stolen from him.
She turned to the next letter, written in an unfamiliar hand. She’d forgotten the packet contained not only letters from her father, but also ones he’d received while at Kilmainham. This one, from his cousin Charles:
26 April 1797
I have nothing to tell you of except the barbarities committed on the innocent country people by the yeomen and Orangemen. The practice among them is to hang a man up by the heels with a rope full of twist, by which means the sufferer whirls round like a bird roasting at the fire, during which he is lashed with belts, etc., to make him tell where he has concealed arms. Last week, at a place near Dungannon, a young man being used in this manner called to his father for assistance, who being inflamed at the sight struck one of the part a desperate blow with his turf spade; but, alas! his life paid the forfeit of his rashness; his entrails were torn out and exposed on a thornbush.
